


He might not

by unnecessary



Category: Daredevil (Comics)
Genre: Conversations about Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, References to Depression, mentioned drug use, more like hurt and then lots of talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 07:39:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7038712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unnecessary/pseuds/unnecessary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey.” Foggy jabs a finger at Matt. “I’m not saying they won’t drag you through the press the next time a reporter finds out that the great Daredevil gets hurt just like everybody else. But Matt, what I saw when I got there…” He swallows. He has never seen a group of strangers act that respectfully to someone they have never met before. They treated Matt like he was going to personally save every one of them. Like he already had. “That was something else.”</p><p>After Daredevil Vol. 2 #64, the people of Hell's Kitchen show Matt that they love him and he doesn't know what to do with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He might not

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a little after Daredevil Vol. 2 #64 (so, spoilers, obviously): Matt has declared himself kingpin, he is still denying that he is Daredevil, and he has recently signed the annulment papers of his marriage with Milla.
> 
> And, as usual, Foggy is the one left picking up the pieces.

Foggy is woken by the sound of someone knocking on his door. He throws back the covers and shuffles across the floor in his slippers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He reaches for the handle, then thinks better of it. Just because no one has approached him in his own home because of his association with Matt Murdock doesn’t mean they won’t. He peers through the peephole.

There are three people clustered around his door. They look…normal. Surprisingly normal, for supervillains or reporters or the Feds.

“Yes?” he says, pulling the door open far enough that he can see them past the chain.

“You Foggy?” the one at the front asks. The other two peer over his shoulders with open curiosity. One of them is still wearing pajamas. Foggy narrows his eyes. 

“Who’s asking?”

“Follow us. We’ve got something you should probably see.” There’s a heavy pause when Foggy doesn’t move. “He’s asking for you.”

“Who?” Foggy asks, as if there’s anyone else that it could possibly be.

The one with dreads grins. “You know. Your friend.”

* * *

 

It’s only just light out. They walk down streets still faded blue with shadow. His new friends don’t seem to be in a hurry, so he shoves his hands in his coat pockets and tries not to think about what he’s going to see. He keeps expecting them to pull him into a dark alley somewhere and show him Daredevil’s body, or Matt’s cane and glasses broken and bloodied after being trampled underfoot, but they lead him to wider streets that haven’t yet become congested with early morning traffic.

The crowd is thin, at first. It takes up the whole street and stretches half a block, maybe, but it’s quiet, making no sound but the low murmur of people talking amongst themselves. He follows his little group as they thread their way between the people gathered in the early morning light. Then people start to turn. Their faces are kind and curious, like they suspect who he is but don’t recognize him. The crowd parts, people stepping back before he can reach them. His group falls back, but Foggy keeps moving forward. He knows where he’s going now.

Matt is lying on his back, talking in quiet tones to the person holding his head in their lap. Someone has folded a jacket and placed it under his head. Someone else is kneeling next to him, taking his pulse with their fingers pressed at the joint of the suit and the mask. Everyone else is standing back at a respectful distance, forming a wall of bodies around him.

There is not a single cell phone in sight.

Foggy steps into the clearing, and the ring of onlookers closes behind him. Matt turns his head. His mouth goes soft beneath the mask. “Foggy.”

“Hey.” Foggy crouches beside him. The person taking his pulse moves away, which is when Foggy sees that Matt is holding a dishrag to his side.

“They wanted to take me to the hospital.” Matt’s voice is dry. It’s only a little tight, but for Matt, that could mean he’s one moment away from slipping into a meditative state to avoid losing consciousness. “Can you imagine? Where would I be if I went to the hospital every time I got a little roughed up.”

“Not here, that’s for sure.” Foggy reaches across Matt’s body and settles his hand over the cloth. Matt’s gloved hand stays there for a moment, loose and comfortable. His hand presses back against Foggy’s, like he relishes the brief moment of contact, and then falls away. 

It’s an ice pack. Matt isn’t using a dishtowel to stem the bleeding from a gunshot wound; someone brought Daredevil an ice pack, and they didn’t want his fingers to get cold.

Foggy’s eyes sting. Matt’s smile goes a little sad around the edges, and he captures Foggy’s hand with his own. Foggy clears his throat. 

“Let’s get you out of here.”

It takes two of them to get Matt upright. Once he is standing, Foggy settles Matt’s arm more firmly across his shoulders and grips him around the waist. “I’ve got him,” he says to the crowd at large, and the woman in jeans and a blazer who was helping him steps back. That was kind of a lie, and maybe a mistake, because then Matt is leaning on Foggy with what feels like his full weight and Foggy is worried his knees are going to buckle. But for a moment, it’s just the two of them standing there, Matt’s labored breathing warm on his ear.

“These are his,” a thin, aging man says as he step forward out of the crowd. He is holding a pile of neatly folded clothes – a dress shirt, maybe, and some slacks, with a worn pair of oxfords on top. He presses them to Foggy’s chest.

Foggy blinks. “Thanks,” he says, taking them with his free hand as best he can.

“If you need somewhere to change, there’s an alley behind my store.” A woman nearby has her arms crossed over her chest. She jerks her head behind her. “No cameras back there.”

“Nah, I think we’re just going to take a taxi. Yeah?” He turns his head towards Matt. Matt nods. “But thanks. We appreciate it.” 

After two steps, Foggy realizes that it isn’t just Matt’s ribs that are the problem. His steps are unsteady, and he keeps swaying dangerously against Foggy like he can’t hold himself upright. A burly man in a reflective vest steps forward and pulls Matt’s other arm across his shoulders. The crowd moves with them as they make their way down the street. Someone must have hailed a cab, because one is waiting for them at the corner. As they guide Matt inside, people reach forward, propping Matt up, helping him, touching his arm or his shoulder in silent thanks.

Foggy gets in beside him and shuts the door. “Any chance we have to worry about the Feds?”

Matt smiles slightly. “Do we ever? But no. They didn’t follow me.”

He gives the driver an address much closer to their destination than Foggy is comfortable with, but the driver barely glances at them in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’s like the Night Nurse, too used to superheroes using his services to be phased by one more wounded person in a costume. Matt is still holding the ice pack to his side, even though it is just slush in a plastic bag now. He leans his head against the headrest. He is smiling.

* * *

 

The Night Nurse is all business, as usual. Foggy stands back and lets her do her thing. Matt doesn’t complain, even though he’s more lucid than he usually is when Foggy has to bring him here. He puts up with her poking and prodding with good humor as Foggy watches the proceedings with narrowed eyes.

(“What left you with bruised ribs _and_ enough sedative to take you out?” 

“Bad decisions. What else, Foggy?”)

When she bustles away, leaving them alone in the quiet room, Foggy settles himself in the spare chair and watches Matt. His pale eyes are drawn and tired, but the set of his mouth is gentle. He looks more relaxed than Foggy has seen him in weeks. He must have done good today. For all that the fight left him lying broken in the street, he must have won.

“They said you asked for me.” Foggy’s voice echoes a little off the cement walls. Matt’s head turns towards him. “Did you ask for Foggy, or Daredevil’s lawyer?”

“Aren’t they the same thing?” Matt tilts his head, intentionally coy. When Foggy doesn’t answer, the smile fades. “None of them got a good look at my face, Foggy. Nothing happened that the papers will be able to do anything with. Everyone on that street already knew who you were. I only told the ones I sent for you where to find you.” His eyes slide closed. “They won’t let your address get out.”

“It’s not my address I’m worried about, Matty.” Matt’s eyes open. “Why did you ask for me?”

“They said they’d bring me anything I needed.” He takes a labored breath. “Anyone. And I didn’t want to tell them where to find the Night Nurse.”

Foggy’s heart feels tight in his chest, but he keeps his voice light. “They were probably expecting Captain America, not one of those schmucks who keepings showing up with you in the papers.” 

Matt shrugs, no mean feat when his limbs barely obey his commands. He is smiling. “I live to disappoint.”

“It doesn’t sound like you’ve been doing much of that lately.” 

“‘Hero felled by a tranquilizer dart the size of a pea.’ That doesn’t sound like tomorrow’s headline to you?” 

Foggy smiles. He wonders if Matt realizes he just referred to himself as a hero. “To be fair, I don’t think anyone would be disappointed that your radar didn’t pick up that one.” He pauses. “Will it? Be in the tabloids?”

Matt’s eyes go distant. “I didn’t hear any cameras. It didn’t seem like anyone was anxious to leave. But…I don’t know anymore.” He coughs, suddenly, a wracking cough that leaves him gasping for air. His eyes go wide and he clutches helplessly at the sheets. Foggy’s skin stings where his nails dig into his palms. The nurse pokes her head in, then leaves. Not life-threatening, he supposes.

Matt falls heavily back against the pillows. The hair plastered to his forehead is dark with sweat. Foggy tries to steady his breathing, tries to slow his heartbeat to something calm and even. He knows Matt can take it - has taken much worse - but it’s still hard to see him in such a bad state. 

The water glass sitting next to the bed has a bendy straw stuck in it that is decorated with bright pink and green stripes. Foggy wonders whether the Night Nurse picked it out herself, or if she just grabbed the biggest pack of straws they had at the bodega down the street. Foggy picks up the glass, and Matt obediently raises his head to take a drink.

“I’ll bet you a hundred to one it’s not in the papers,” Foggy says. Matt releases the straw from between his lips and Foggy sets the water glass back on the table. “The fight will be, if there were witnesses.” He pauses. “Were there witnesses?”

The ghost of a smile passes across Matt’s lips. “There were witnesses.”

“There you go. But I don’t think a single person on that street is going to tell a reporter what they saw after it was over.”

Matt smiles at Foggy, a real smile, one he hasn’t seen since Milla left. “Now who is being too optimistic?”

“Hey.” Foggy jabs a finger at Matt. “I’m not saying they won’t drag you through the press the next time a reporter finds out that the great Daredevil gets hurt just like everybody else. But Matt, what I saw when I got there…” He swallows. He has never seen a group of strangers act that respectfully to someone they have never met before. They treated Matt like he was going to personally save every one of them. Like he already had. “That was something else.”

Matt turns his head back towards the ceiling. “Of course they were polite to me _then_. They had just watched me beat the crap out of someone who thought that robbing a twenty-four hour convenience store at gunpoint before the morning shift came in was a good idea. Too bad –” His breathing hitches, but he breathes out slowly and doesn’t start coughing. “– Too bad for him and his friends that they had taken MGH.”

Foggy winces. “Did they make it?”

Matt grins fiercely. “No. Would you believe that they were baiting me? All five of them thought that if they picked somewhere small enough, early enough, that they would be able to fight me without the police getting involved. They knew they wouldn’t be able to get away with robbing a bank, so they didn’t bother. It wasn’t about money. They thought that if they took double the normal dose, then shot me full of some crap they bought online somewhere, they’d be able to take me down and drag me to the Feds themselves.” His back arches as he gasps in air. “They did - did manage to get in a few good hits before their hearts gave out, though.” 

“A few,” Foggy agrees dryly. His own heart is in his throat. He watches carefully as Matt subsides against the sheets. “That stuff is pretty nasty, huh?” 

“Yeah. I’ve gotta get it off the streets.” Matt’s eyes go distant again. “Foggy. Do you think it is ever going to end?” 

He could be talking about the press. He could be talking about the reporters who cluster around their office, day after day, scrabbling at Matt for a quote, any quote. Waiting for him to just tell them that he really is Daredevil, or the kingpin, or both. Waiting for him to snap. But this isn’t about the press. This is about why he took off the mask in that bar and declared himself kingpin in the first place. This is about not wanting to have a double life anymore.

 _Matt,_ he thinks, his heart beating hard in his chest, _are you giving up?_

“You know it isn’t.” The furrow between Matt’s eyes grows deeper, and his hands twist in the sheets, but Foggy keeps talking. “If it isn’t MGH, it’s something else. Hell’s Kitchen isn’t going to suddenly clean itself up just because you want it to. But just because it’s a fight you can’t win doesn’t mean it’s not one worth fighting.”

Matt slams his fist into the bedsheets, suddenly. “God, Foggy, then what am I doing? This was supposed to stop. They say everyone in the city is scared of me, but how scared can they be if five smalltime drug dealers think they can take me down?”

Foggy blinks and sits back. “Matt. They aren’t scared of you. They love you.”

Matt snorts. “The people I’ve driven out of here, the people I fight every day for control of this place, love me? Unsubstantiated claim, counselor.”

“I don’t mean just them. I’m talking about the whole city. But sure. The people running drugs are part of it, too.” 

Matt tilts his head a little closer to Foggy, intrigued. “So? I’ve made their lives hell. They aren’t going to thank me for it.” 

“Maybe not. But, Matt - this isn’t a zero-sum game.” His features twist like Foggy has just spoken nonsense. “They can hate you for what you do to them and still love you for what you do for the sake of the greater good. People don’t have to think in absolutes of good and bad. You act like this entire place is either for you or against you.” Matt doesn’t look convinced. Foggy sighs. “Sometimes I think you think of this city as a place.”

“It is a place.”

Foggy rolls his eyes. “Hear me out. Yes, it is a physical space, but I think you forget that it’s also the people who live in it. You used to talk about Milla like she was the city, somehow, like she’s all the best parts of this place. Like her loving you was a sign that this city was grateful for everything you had done.” Matt turns his face away. “I hope I don’t need to tell you how weird that is, not to mention unfair to her, Matt.” His jaw clenches in answer. “But the city _is_ grateful, and it does respect you for the sacrifices you have made. That isn’t some mysterious knowledge that comes from communing with the old clock tower after midnight. You find that out from the people who live here.” 

Matt turns his head to face the ceiling. He is frowning. “Respect? Yes, they respect me. But love? Foggy, that makes no sense. The people of Hell’s Kitchen know better than anyone what I’m capable of. It doesn’t matter if tomorrow the papers declare that I’m a saint. They’re never going to forget how I took down Fisk.” 

“Matty.” Foggy leans forward and clasps his hands together. “When you took off the mask that night and told everyone to clean up or get out, there were, what – fifteen, twenty people in that bar? Not a single one of them has come forward to confirm that Matthew Murdock and Daredevil are the same person. Sure, some of them probably left town, but the people who love this place the way you do, or didn’t want to leave, or couldn’t – they all stayed, and not a single one of them has said a word. Those people out there just now – you should’ve seen their faces, Matt. That kind of loyalty doesn’t come from fear. They love you.”

“If they do, they love what I stand for. It’s a symbol – the mask, the costume. That’s not me.”

“You’re right, it’s not. But you chose it. It represents the things you want to fight for – justice and integrity, even in the face of fear. You want to guess the qualities I love most about you?” The corner of Matt’s mouth turns down into a disgruntled line, but Foggy ignores it. “That symbol _is_ a part of you. Even if it just represents the person you want to be, it says something good about you that people love you for it.” Foggy’s voice goes a little quieter. “And yeah, those people don’t really know you. They only know you as Daredevil, or Matt Murdock. Maybe they think they know you as both, if they watch the news. But I really do know you, Matt, and I’m here.” 

“So did Milla.” Matt’s face crumples. He turns his head to the side, away from Foggy. Matt, who is afraid of nothing, trying to hide. 

Foggy’s fingers curl into his palms. _So did Karen,_ he wants to say. _They weren’t the only ones who loved you for everything you are._ But that won’t help, because they aren’t here. _Let her go,_ he wants to say, but Matt won’t be able to listen. 

Over the curve of his cheek, Matt’s eyelashes flutter lightly. It’s not much, but it’s something. 

“Matt,” he says softly. Then: “Matty.” 

Matt turns towards him. The clouded blue of his eyes is just visible through the darkness of his lashes. “Even if you’re right, they shouldn’t. I told them I’d make this city a better place. I’ve failed them.” 

The anger that flashes through Foggy is hot and bright. “You only think that you failed because that’s what you tell yourself. If your goal is to take every drug off the streets, then yeah, you’ve failed!” Matt flinches. “We both know there’s always going to be crime, and drugs. But look, Matt – if you want to protect the people of the city, if you want to improve their lives, you’ve already done that. You’ve done that a hundred times over.”

“Some thanks I get for it.” Matt’s voice is scratchy and raw. His fingers curl over his side. 

Foggy smiles. “Yeah, well. People are heartless bastards.” 

Matt’s chin lifts. He turns his face fully towards Foggy, pressing his temple into the softness of the pillow. “Thank you for coming to get me. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but I was sort of expecting you to show up in bunny slippers.” 

“It was a near thing, Murdock. You’re lucky I’m an early riser.” 

“So, fuck o’clock in the morning.” 

“Fuck o’clock in the morning,” Foggy confirms. 

Matt smiles slightly. His head settles deeper into the pillow as his eyes slide closed. 

In the next room, the nurse’s heels clack against the floor. Foggy stretches exaggeratedly, cracking his back. 

“Well, I should probably get back to the office to save a little face. I’ll tell them you’ve got a cough and are taking a sick day.”

Matt’s mouth twitches upwards. “Funny.”

Foggy slaps his thighs and stands up. “Don’t forget to wear street clothes on your way out of here.”

Matt’s eyes open a crack. “Got any I can borrow?”

“Oh, right.” Foggy picks up the pile of clothes from where he had set them at the foot of the bed and plops them down beside Matt. He drops the shoes on the floor roughly where he thinks Matt’s feet will end up, their worn soles slapping the floor.

Matt spreads his hand across the pile of clothes. He frowns and fingers the shirt. His eyes go wide. “These are mine.”

“They are now. They certainly won’t fit me.”

“No, they’re really mine.” Matt slips his hand between the folds of the slacks. “They don’t smell like my detergent, but they’re mine. I must have left them in a dumpster when I had to change quickly, and someone must have…” He looks stunned.

Foggy smiles. “Who can say why someone would be that thoughtful?”

Matt schools his expression into something unaffected. “Well, if I’ve got clothes…” He makes to toss back the covers.

“Whoa there. Don’t even think about it. I’m not helping you get anywhere while you’re still on horse tranquilizers. You’ve earned that sick day, and you’re going to take it.”

“Don’t boss me around,” Matt says, but he settles back against the pillows.

“Don’t get bossy with me when I’m being bossy,” Foggy retorts.

The corner of Matt’s mouth quirks upwards. “Tell me if I make the front page, will you?”

“Sure thing.” Foggy rests his hand on the edge of the bed. “Feel better, okay?”

Matt smiles. He slips his hand into Foggy’s. His fingers curl around Foggy’s wrist, pressing against his pulse point and the steady beat of Foggy’s heart in a silent promise. “I will.”


End file.
